


The 300 Club

by Noxnthea



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Antarctica, Because science bros shouldn't just be Tony and Bruce, Fluff, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Human Disaster Clint Barton, M/M, Scientist Bucky Barnes, Scientist Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28166214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noxnthea/pseuds/Noxnthea
Summary: “Me here?” Bucky asks, a little hysterically. “What do you expect me to do, haul your frozen body in from the snow bank that you're going to inevitably trip into and die in?”Clint chuckles, as though what Bucky’s asked is completely illogical, which it decidedly is not. “Nah, you can suit up if you want to come along to make sure I stay on track, but I’ll make it back just fine. I really just need you to be here to make sure the door stays open, help me get my boots off and into those blankets when I get back.”“Clint.” Bucky's eyes are now closed, and he wants to bang his head against the door because he's supposed to have a break from taking care of dumb blondes. “Please tell me you wouldn’t do this if you were completely alone.”The silence that emanates from the sauna is telling.“Well,” Clint finally says, “I’m trying to not get into the habit of lying to you, Barnes."
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 29
Kudos: 94
Collections: Winterhawk Wonderland - 2020 edition!





	The 300 Club

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GWH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GWH/gifts).



> Hi Gwhells, I had such a good time writing this fic, though I doubt this was what you imagined your prompts producing. I hope you enjoy this weirdly sciencey-while-not-at-all-sciency snowy fluff fic that I’ve created for you, and hope you spot all three prompts somewhere in here!
> 
> And thank you x3000 @ChrissiHR for your amazing beta work. I'm so grateful for your help :)
> 
> Prompts: **Baby, it's cold outside, NoAvengers!AU** , mermaids

Bucky stares out into the snowy darkness, watching the tail lights of the Sno-Cat disappear over the horizon, taking with it both his best friend and exactly one half of the researchers posted at Crozier station along the coast of the Ross Sea, Antarctica. Steve and Natasha will be gone for three weeks on their trip back to McMurdo Station for supplies, one of the major American research stations in Antarctica where all four of them spent the summer season conducting their respective research before moving out here for winter data collection and monitoring. 

The red glow of the tail lights rise, then dip, vanishing behind a mound in the snow in the distance. Bucky’s not really sure whose fault it is that they don’t have enough supplies to last throughout the entire winter season; that definitely feels like something that the logistics team should’ve worked out before sending the four of them out here for four months. A scheduled resupply in August? Ridiculous and unnecessary. 

“It’s only three weeks,” Clint says from beside him, and Bucky glances up at him. He looks just about as pitiful as Bucky feels, taking a sip from his coffee mug as he watches out the window, his own research partner in the vehicle beside Steve. Light from the kitchen behind them catches on the metallic purple shine of his hearing aids peeking out from under his beanie. 

“Three weeks is a long time,” Bucky says, glaring back out at the darkness. “Especially when it’s just us two with hardly anything to do.” 

It’s not that he doesn’t like Clint, it’s just that he doesn’t really know him, and that he’s more than a little bitter about this situation. Clint and Natasha are climatologists, here at Crozier to monitor ultraviolet radiation for the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration throughout the winter, tracking its effects on climate change. Steve and Bucky are both marine biologists, currently measuring off season environmental factors that may affect the local Adelie penguin colony come spring and summer breeding. In other words, Bucky and Clint are doing very, very different jobs with very, very little overlap. 

It didn’t make sense for both people from one team to leave the outpost for three weeks, so they’d decided to split each team, with one half returning to McMurdo, the other staying behind to monitor equipment and keep data tracking current. It was logical, yes, but Bucky felt more than a little miffed at having to stay behind while Steve returned to the larger base, where there would be variety in terms of things to do, people to talk to, food to eat. Plus, worst of all—

“It’s so cold out here,” Bucky grumbles. His breath fogs up against the window. 

Clint chuckles. “Man, I don’t know why you signed up for a winter shift out here, with as much as you hate the cold.” 

Bucky sticks out his index finger and traces an angry face in the condensation on the glass. “You can bet your ass I won’t be doing this next year,” he says, then traces a quick _'fuck you’_ in the condensation just as it starts to shrink back, the words disappearing quickly. 

Clint’s burst of laughter is startling beside him, and Bucky blinks up at him, a faint smile beginning to take form on his face. 

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you to make it easier. You know the cold doesn’t bother me quite as much as it does you,” Clint offers, and Bucky tilts his head, considering. He’s lucky; most of the instruments he’s monitoring send automatic updates to one of the computers in the lab, so he really only needs to go outside into the cold every couple of days when he has to adjust the angles and check for things that might’ve built up and begun interfering with the readings. Clint could probably do that for him, if he was feeling particularly pathetic. 

“I’ll let you know,” Bucky replies. “For now, I need some of that coffee if I’m going to make it through the day.” 

He hitches the neck of his turtleneck sweater tighter around his throat and turns towards the kitchen, leaving Clint standing at the window, coffee mug in hand, grin reflecting in the windowpane. At least they’ve got their need for caffeine in common. 

~~~~~~

When Clint asks him to help him out with something a few days later, Bucky agrees without really paying attention. He’s focused on finishing up an email to his boss, reporting on the spike in chlorophyll one of the off-shore instruments had picked up the day before. It’s a strange occurrence in the middle of winter, when most plant life, algae included, is frozen and dead. He waves Clint off with a quick, “Sure, 18:00 at the mudroom, got it,” and turns back to his work without further analysis of what he’d been asked to do. 

He’s eating in the kitchen, one fork stuck deep into a can of ravioli, when he remembers Clint’s asked him to do something. He checks his watch, and gives a sigh of relief when he realizes he has 10 more minutes before he needs to be at the mud room. He finishes the ravioli quickly and makes his way over, a few minutes early. 

There’s a single space heater turned on, blasting warm air into the room by the back door, and there’s a stack of blankets lying in a lump on the ground. Clint’s boots are missing from the rack, and, most alarmingly, there’s a trail of clothes leading from the door way over to the sauna. 

“Clint?” Bucky asks, staring at the pair of purple underwear stitched with pizza slices that are draped over his own boots. 

“In here,” Clint calls out from inside the sauna. “It’s been almost twenty minutes, I think I’m about ready!” 

Bucky walks tentatively over towards the sauna. He can feel the heat radiating from it, hotter than he’s ever felt it go. “How hot is it in there?” 

“The thermometer just hit 200!” Clint’s voice is surprisingly gleeful for someone in a room that’s only 12 degrees from water’s boiling point. Bucky’s eyes widen, and he yanks the door open unceremoniously. 

“What are you _doing?_ ” he asks, smacking his hands across his eyes just as he sees one very naked Clint tip off the stool and scramble for a small white towel on the ground. 

“What do you mean, what am I doing?” Clint yelps. “I told you, I’m joining the 300 club tonight! It’s supposed to get down to -100 at six tonight, so I have to sit in the sauna at 200 degrees so that it’ll be the full 300 degree drop. Close the door!” 

Bucky hesitates, one hand wrapped around the door frame, the other still across his eyes. His brain is short circuiting, partially due to the sheer insanity spewing from Clint’s mouth, partially due to the mental image he now has burned across the back of his eyelids. He wavers, the door drifting in his hands, before Clint says, beseechingly, “Come on, I told you about this. It’s fine. They do it all the time up at McMurdo. It might not get all the way down to -100 again this winter.” 

Bucky closes the door and thunks his head against it. 

“You’re outta your mind, Barton.” 

Clint chuckles. “Maybe a little bit, but it’ll be fine. I’ve got my bunny boots and a neck gaiter so that the cold air doesn’t damage my lungs.” 

Bucky mouths the words against the back of the door. _Damage my lungs_ —because this is the person who he’s stranded with alone for three weeks, someone who is about to do an activity so ridiculous that there’s a chance he’ll do damage to a vital organ, and he’s still planning on it. 

“I know you’ve got some cabin fever, but is this really the best way to stay busy?” 

“It’s not that,” Clint says, and Bucky can hear him pulling and strapping his heavy snow boots on. “I’ve planned on doing this since finding out Nat and I would be out here through the winter. I’d do it if they were still here, or if we were still at McMurdo. Besides, I’ve got you here in case something happens.” 

“Me here?” Bucky asks, a little hysterically. “What do you expect me to do, haul your frozen body in from the snow bank that you're going to inevitably trip into and die in?” 

Clint chuckles, as though what Bucky’s asked is completely illogical, which it decidedly is _not_. “Nah, you can suit up if you want to come along to make sure I stay on track, but I’ll make it back just fine. I really just need you to be here to make sure the door stays open, help me get my boots off and into those blankets when I get back.” 

“Clint.” Bucky's eyes are now closed, and he wants to bang his head against the door because he's supposed to have a break from taking care of dumb blondes. “Please tell me you wouldn’t do this if you were completely alone.” 

The silence that emanates from the sauna is telling. 

“Well,” Clint finally says, “I’m trying to not get into the habit of lying to you, Barnes.” 

Bucky sighs. “Okay. Give me two minutes to get my gear on.” 

Shaking his head and muttering about the idiocy of the tall blondes he knows, Bucky heads into the mud room, pulling on his two jackets, beanie, neck gaiter, and his own pair of bunny boots. He peeks his head out the door and can see a chair illuminated about 150 yards out from the station, a single spotlight marking the way. The wind is howling, but it’s not as rough out there as it’s been the last couple nights. He can see the way to the chair, at the very least, which is more visibility than some days. When he brings his head back in, Clint is out of the sauna, heading his way, and, well, _hello._

Clint’s body is positively dripping sweat, and not even his bright red skin can distract Bucky from just how _much_ skin is showing. He’s hobbling out of the sauna with his hands clutched in front of his crotch, pressing a white hand towel behind them. The only other items on his body are a bright purple gaiter, stretched from his neck to the bridge of his nose and his clunky, Extreme Cold Vapor Barrier Boots that, last Bucky checked, are only insulated down to -65 degrees Fahrenheit. 

“Shit,” Clint says, quickly shaking his head and tilting his head to the side to take out his hearing aids, “I probably really fucked these up in the sauna.” 

He leans over to set them down gently on the bench they sit on when putting their boots on, and Bucky can’t help but watch the ripple of muscle across his shoulders as his arm extends.

Bucky gulps and is grateful for his own neck gaiter that is hopefully hiding the crimson blush that must surely be marching its way up his cheeks, if the flames he feels licking at his face are any indication. 

“You’re really doing this,” he says, for lack of anything more coherent to say. 

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Clint grins, watching his mouth, which Bucky tells himself definitely means nothing more than that it’ll help Clint understand him. “You coming out with me?”

Bucky lets out a huff. “It’d be irresponsible for me not to.” 

“Dope,” Clint says, placing his hand on the door. “Now, I’m not going to run, cause that can supposedly do the worst damage to my lungs if I try to inhale too fast, so keep me paced at, like, a power walk?” 

Bucky can’t remember the last time someone below the age of 50 or outside of an elementary physical education class said the words ‘power walk’, so he just nods. “Got it.” 

Clint raises his eyebrows, absolute mischief running rampant in his eyes. “Let’s do this.” 

He flings open the door to the outdoors, immediately dropping the tiny towel back into the building, since apparently even that minuscule barrier would constitute cheating, in Clint’s mind. Bracing against the chill, Clint begins to move forward, steady through his shivers. Bucky sighs, and follows. 

Clint makes it back to the station in one piece, of course, having only paused once on his trip back, a shaking column of pale, freckled skin that Bucky’d poked at until he kept pacing forward. 

When they get back inside, Clint collapses on the pile of blankets, shivering. 

“Sh-sh-shit,” he gets out, twitching one of his arms in a way Bucky suspects is meant to be a point. 

Bucky grabs the space heater from where Clint had left it too far from the door, and goes about grabbing any of the spare coats from the hooks along the mud room wall, tucking them around Clint’s body. He opens the door to the sauna for good measure, letting the heat flood out and into the hallway and mud room. 

“You’re an absolute idiot,” he tells the huddled mass of blankets and coats on the ground. Then he repeats it louder for good measure, to be sure Clint hears him.

It’s several moments before Clint has enough wherewithal to respond. 

“But I’m an idiot who’s a part of the most exclusive club in the world.” 

Bucky looks down at him, one eyebrow cocked where Clint can’t see it, covered as he is. “A cold idiot,” he says, squatting down beside him, “club member or not.” 

“I don’t know,” Clint says, adjusting just enough that Bucky can see one blue eye shining from a hole in between two jackets. “Once I thaw out, I think this idiot’s kinda hot.” 

Bucky is thankful for the second time in ten minutes that he’s wearing a gaiter as a smile fights its way onto his face. “Let’s just stick with the part we can agree on,” he says, instead of letting Clint know just how much he’s in agreement. “You’re an idiot.” 

~~~~~~

Clint strides into the lounge room on a mission, brows furrowed and eyes searching. Bucky watches over the top of his book from his reclined position on the couch. Clint’s hair is messier, somehow, than normal, looking like he’s spent the past ten minutes with his hands up in it. Or else like he just woke up. Or, and Bucky tilts his head consideringly, like he just had sex. If that sex was with a bag of flour, that is, because there is a hell of a lot of white powder all mixed up in it. 

Clint paces through the room, shuffling papers and books off end tables, moving the chairs in front of the fireplace as though they have something to hide. He stops in front of the bookshelf and glowers at it for a moment before shaking his head and sighing. 

Bucky sets the book down on his chest. “Are you looking for something?” 

“Yeah, sorry,” Clint says, and kneels next to the couch directly in front of Bucky, whose heart stutters in his chest at the suggestive position. Clint leans over and sticks his face down to the ground, one arm diving under the couch. He rifles around for a minute before straightening, putting a hand on Bucky’s knee to steady himself. “You haven’t seen the oars anywhere, have you?” 

When they arrived at this station at the end of the summer season, Steve misguidedly decided to bring his collapsible canoe that he’d used recreationally back at McMurdo, thinking he’d have the desire to do so throughout the winter. Bucky’d warned him, but he’d lugged it and its oars along with them as part of their preciously small personal cargo space, and the thing had sat gathering dust for three months. Canoeing on the open ocean in the summer was one thing, but in the Antarctic winter, with storms constant on the horizon, and continual darkness obscuring any kind of view? Not even Steve was so fool-hardy. 

“Have you checked the storage locker?” Bucky asks. 

“Oh, duh, obviously!” Clint exclaims, moving his hand off Bucky’s knee to smack himself in the forehead. 

“What do you need the oars for, Clint?” Clint does a lot of absurd things, his foray into the cold with no clothes two days before a prime example, but he’s never shown any interest in getting out on the ocean. 

“Well, I figure an oar is like a giant spoon, you know, and we don’t have a stand mixer, so it’s basically the same thing,” Clint says, standing and turning to leave. “And that’s what the recipe calls for.” 

“The recipe,” Bucky repeats slowly, and Clint nods excitedly, dashing out of the room, a puff of flour trailing in his wake.

Bucky shakes his head and picks up his book again, resolving to not get involved with Clint’s shenanigans. It’s warm in here, and he’s going to do his best to convince himself that the plot of this book is more interesting than whatever Clint’s doing with an oar and a recipe. 

It works, until it doesn’t, which just so happens to coincide with Clint’s loud bemoaning of “Aw, cookies, no,” that echoes down the hallway. 

Bucky carefully places a bookmark to keep his spot and sets his book down, folding his glasses up and hanging them on the neck of his shirt before padding in socked feet down to the kitchen. When he peeks his head around the corner, he finds Clint sitting on the center of the floor, an absolute explosion of dry baking products spread around him. One of Steve’s oars has fallen over Clint’s shins, and a nearly empty glass bowl is clutched between Clint’s thighs. 

“Are you doing okay?” Bucky asks, tentatively stepping inside. 

“It didn’t work,” Clint says mournfully. “I thought it would, but it didn’t.” 

“I can see that,” Bucky says, carefully not asking him why on earth he thought the best decision for stirring was a literal oar, when so many other utensils are within reach in the kitchen. 

“Man,” Clint says. “I ran out of cookies yesterday, thought I could try making my own.” 

Bucky thinks about the various bags and plastic wrappers he’s found throughout the station since Clint and Natasha showed up, and wonders just how many packages of cookies Clint managed to squirrel away. He estimates roughly enough to fill the same amount of personal space as Steve’s canoe occupied. 

Clint stands, and Bucky winces as he brushes the cocoa powder, flour, and sugar off of his pants onto the floor. On the counter, the boxed egg whites, vanilla, and canned milk lie sad and abandoned. Clint trudges over to where the broom is, and as he begins to sweep, even the slope of his shoulders, broad though it is, radiates disappointment. 

Bucky steps a little further into the room. “I, uh, I have some chocolate I can share with you,” he says, crossing his arms to make himself smaller and protect his sweater from the floury dust in the air. 

“Would you really?” Clint asks, looking up from his sweeping, big blue eyes reminding Bucky of the old Sarah McLachlan ASPCA ads. Bucky finds he absolutely cannot resist. 

“Sure,” he says. “I’ve been rationing.” He walks over to the pantry and squats down to the designated ‘Bucky only’ shelf, sticking his hand back to where the last several of his chocolate bars are. Bucky tells himself that it’s perfectly logical to decide to share with Clint, and doesn’t think at all about the accusatory looks that Steve would shoot at him if he found out, Bucky having vehemently denied Steve access to a single bite all winter. 

He stands and peruses the communal shelves for a moment, settling on a can of green peas. It’s possible that he’s abandoned most of his commitment to the idea of a balanced diet since arriving, but at least he still eats what can be vaguely interpreted as vegetables. He pulls back the tab of the can and tosses the chocolate bar to Clint, who has settled on top of the counter. Bucky sets the can down by the stove, opening a drawer to get a fork, subtly switching off the oven in the process. 

When he turns, Clint’s got an expression of pure bliss on his face, and Bucky chokes just slightly on his first bite of peas. That expression should _not_ be allowed outside of the bedroom. 

“Thanks, Bucky,” Clint says, eyes closed. He opens them, and Bucky hastily shoves another forkful into his mouth. Clint’s head tilts, eyes quizzical. “You don’t want to share?” 

“I’m good,” Bucky says, searching desperately for an excuse to avoid the fool he’ll make of himself if he gives in. “Not really in the mood for sweets right now. Gotta get my greens in sometime.” 

“That’s true.” Clint nods agreeably, taking another small bite of chocolate. “I miss fresh vegetables though. I’d kill for a real salad, or like…just some straight up fresh greens.” 

Bucky removes his fork from the can of soggy peas and waves it in Clint’s general direction. “No, _I_ miss salad and fresh greens. You,” he shakes the fork, and pea water flicks onto Clint’s face, “You miss fresh pizza.” 

Clint smiles infectiously at him, not seeming to notice the faintly green water making tracks down the side of his temple through the flour. “You are very not wrong, Bucky Barnes.” He squints. “But I might be so desperate when we get home to be open to one of those hipster pizzas where they throw random green shit on top.” 

Bucky resists and gives into a smile. “I really like it when they throw ‘random green shit’ onto pizzas.” 

“Of course you do,” Clint says, grinning at him. “You probably even get vegan cheese when you can, don’t you?” 

Bucky feels very personally attacked, in a way that warms his insides. “It’s possible.” 

“I’ve got you all figured out,” Clint says, eyes closed once more in chocolatey bliss. 

~~~~~~

On the second Sunday of being together alone at the Crozier outpost, Bucky is woken up to the sound of sporadic shouting from the room next door. 

He rolls over onto his back, and cracks his eyes open one at a time. It’s not like he can look out a window to check the time of day, so he flings his arm out to the side table at the head of the bunk he’s on, his hand scrambling through the debris he’s let pile up. When he finally manages to secure his phone, he pulls his arm back sharply, ducking everything under the covers. 

No matter how effective the heating system or the fact that they leave the fire burning as often as is safe, it is perpetually cold, and Bucky had been dumb last night, thinking he’d be okay to sleep without a shirt on. Spoilers: he wasn’t. 

He clicks the screen of his phone on, flinches at the illumination under the blankets, and blinks blearily at the numbers in front of his face: _7:23._ Why was Clint awake so early on a Sunday? 

A bark of laughter filters in through the wall at his head and he frowns in its general direction. He lets his phone fall onto his chest and mentally debates the pros and cons of getting out of bed. Honestly, there aren’t many pros, but Bucky knows himself well enough by now to know that he’s alert enough that it’ll probably be difficult to fall back asleep. 

With a sigh, he flips himself onto his stomach and carefully maneuvers the blankets around him so that he can slouch off the bed and over to the hole-in-the-wall two-in-one dresser/closet combination he shares with Steve without his bare skin ever being touched by cold air. 

He grabs what he needs with one freezing arm before retreating under the blanket, performing some body contortions that he might be proud of in another life in order to attire himself without exposing anything else. Perhaps it’s not the most efficient thing, and perhaps he’s too embarrassed by it to act like a hypothermic caterpillar when Steve is in the room, but it gets the job done. 

Bucky tosses the blankets back on the bottom bunk and heads out of the room just as he hears Clint launch into a high-volume tirade that can only be described as an oath. 

“And I swear to you, my past is behind me. I have forsworn the path of the criminal, and will now use my roguish charm and fighting skills only to defend the party and the innocent victims of the red dragon.” 

Bucky pauses outside of his door, perturbed. 

“I am committed to this path; I will follow you into the depths of Mordor—wait, no, what did you call it, Kate? Murduh? It’s not my fault it’s so similar! Okay, okay, I will follow you into the depths of Murduh, as you have changed my life, and provided a way into the light! This I swear.” 

There’s silence, and Bucky realizes he’s staring at the door in absolute bewilderment. 

Clint chuckles a minute later, “Yeah, I know, I thought it was pretty good, too. My boy Hawkeye goes hard. I mean, think of his backstory, of course he’s going to be all in once he realizes the orphans were involved!” 

Bucky decides he needs coffee before his brain can comprehend what exactly is going on. 

He’s sitting at the table in the kitchen, nursing his third cup, when Clint bursts into the room in a beeline for the refrigerator. 

“Hey, Bucky,” he says, grabbing one of the carbonated water containers they keep filled. “I didn’t expect to see you so early this morning.” 

Bucky takes a sip and shoots a baleful expression at him, which Clint doesn’t seem to register. “I also didn’t expect to be awake so early this morning.” 

“Oh, shoot,” Clint says, putting the container down before he finishes topping up his reusable water bottle. “I didn’t wake you, did I?” 

Bucky can’t find it within his heart to be honest. “Not really sure what woke me up. What are you doing? I walked past your room and heard a, um, speech?” 

“Oh, sorry about that,” Clint says with a grin, finishing topping up his bottle. “It’s my DnD group back in California. Well, not my group. My friend Kate roped me in for this campaign because they were down a player.” 

“Isn’t it a little early for that?” Bucky asks, thinking of the commitment an RPG group must have to play at 10:00am on a Saturday, which is the time in California’s time zone right now. 

Clint chuckles. “Man, these people are so into it, it’s wild. They play all day once a month on Saturday, and I’m pretty sure most of them are in other groups doing different campaigns the rest of the month.” 

Bucky takes another sip of his coffee. “But it’s not really your thing?” 

“Nah, not really,” Clint says, grabbing some of the leftovers from the fridge, apparently intending to eat them cold. “But Kate really likes it, and whatever she wants, if I can make it happen, I will.” 

“Even though that means waking up at seven AM on a Sunday?” Bucky asks, quirking his eyebrow over his mug. 

“Even then,” Clint says. He puffs out his chest comically, putting the hand with his water bottle on his hip. “I’m a good friend like that.” 

Bucky can hear a faint chiming from Clint’s internet call drifting down the hallway, so he nudges his chin towards it. “I think you’re being summoned.” 

“Man, America better not have used another fourth level spell outside of battle,” Clint says, striding out of the room. 

Bucky takes another sip of his coffee and feels his lips curve up around his mug. 

He hears the moment Clint realizes his mistake by a muttered, “shoot,” then tracks his steps back to the kitchen. “You didn’t literally mean summon, I got it.” He’s blushing, and it’s more than a little adorable. “I didn’t have time for more than one cup of coffee before the session started, cut me some slack!” 

“I didn’t say anything,” Bucky exclaims, smirk broadening. He settles his elbows on the table, and hopes Clint hears the honesty in his words. “I love how into it you are.” 

Clint’s blush increases, somehow. He flounders for something to say, before settling on, “Well, good, then. I guess.” 

“Yeah, good,” Bucky replies nonsensically, and Clint rolls his eyes before disappearing down the hallway. 

Bucky takes another long pull from his mug. He’s going to need a lot more caffeine to process the fact that apparently he’s into hot blondes who wake up stupid early to play a goofy game for the sake of a friend. 

~~~~~~

“Hey, Barton,” Bucky calls from the kitchen, standing up from slipping a frozen pizza into the oven. It’s no delivery, nor even DiGiorno, but it’ll satisfy their need for cheese and carbs for the day. 

“Just a second,” Clint calls back from his lab, where he’s been holed up for hours. 

Bucky frowns, sets the timer, and decides to walk over to check on him. Usually Clint is the one who comes a-bothering, not the other way around. It’s not that Clint doesn’t do his work; he wouldn’t be here in this prestigious, though isolated, research position if he wasn’t good at what he did. It’s more that Clint seems to lack the sense of urgency and stress that Bucky feels about his work. He’s always willing to take a break, and seems to have no issue with completing his work at random hours of the night. 

Bucky knocks on the door to the lab and at Clint’s distracted, “Yeah?” he opens it just in time to see Clint tucking one of his aids back into his ear. The other one is still on the fritz from the blonde’s ill-advised sweat session in the sauna, and Clint’s waiting on Natasha to bring him his spare pair, which he’d foolishly left in his storage locked back at McMurdo.

“Hey, man,” Bucky says, leaning on the doorway. Clint’s got his back to the door, hunched over the computer, typing furiously. “Everything all good? You gonna be much longer?” 

“Hold up a sec,” Clint says, then adds a final line to whatever he’s typing before leaning back with a sigh, hands linking together at the back of his head. He spins his chair around, smiles up at Bucky. 

He’s got a purple hoodie on over gray sweatpants with holes in them. He’s wearing a battered pair of Converse with the laces loose, and between his outfit and the combination of tired eyes and playful grin, he looks more like a cuddly college senior than an atmospheric researcher with multiple advanced degrees and a job that has him compiling numbers about ozone depletion for half the year. What Clint’s capable of and how he presents himself is an interesting juxtaposition. 

Clint stretches his arms up above his head, covering his yawn behind one shoulder, and a slip of skin shows between the hems of his hoodie and sweatpants. Bucky can’t help but trace the line with his eyes. 

Clint is an _interesting_ juxtaposition. 

“What’s up?” Clint asks, smiling up at him, eyes alight. “I just finished typing up the most up to date chlorofluorocarbons and other aerosols report alongside the terrestrial radiation fluxes we’ve been gathering on the polar plateau, and I think it’s really going to be important to the boys back in Colorado, because—” he breaks off, blushing suddenly, and rubs at the back of his neck with one hand. 

“Because why?” Bucky prompts, tilting his head.

“Nah,” Clint chuckles, eyes downcast, “You don’t really care about this stuff, I don’t mean to start spewing climate things at you. You probably don’t want to talk about work anyways. What’d you need?” 

“It’s no bother,” Bucky says slowly, frowning slightly. “I was just going to tell you that I put a pizza in, if you wanted to share for dinner tonight. I thought we could watch a movie or something.” 

In his head, it didn’t sound quite so much like a date invitation. 

“I’m always down for pizza,” Clint says, a little distracted. “And a movie sounds good, too. I just gotta do some edits on this before I send it off to the guy overseeing this branch of the Global Monitoring Division, so I’ll be a few.” 

Bucky takes a step inside so he can see Clint’s screen better, thankful for the moment for Clint’s inability to pick up on how Bucky’s subconscious is apparently all for asking him out. “That’s fine. It’ll be a bit before the pizza’s done anyway. What were you so excited about with this report?” 

“It’s, um,” Clint looks away, then meets Bucky’s gaze, questioning, “Are you sure you wanna hear about this? I know it’s not really your thing; I don’t wanna bore you.” 

“Clint,” Bucky says, flicking him on the shoulder in a rare show of flirtatious bravery, “I’m a scientist. I know what CFCs are; I know that the work you’re doing here is important. Tell me what’s got you so excited.” 

A tentative smile spreads out across Clint’s face, and he turns back to the computer. “If you’re sure.” 

“I am,” Bucky replies, and leans in close. 

Clint clicks open a graphing program and starts to point out the slope of one of the graphs. “Okay, so, see how the rise here is consistent until this point? That’s showing how traces of CFCs over that instrument we have a mile out have shown a marked decline since late July, and I think it’s because of this…” 

He toggles over to another program, and Bucky listens to him proceed to geek the fuck out. 

It’s not until half an hour later as he’s dropping a plate of pizza onto Clint’s lap from behind the couch in the lounge that he realizes what this means. 

See, it’d be a lot easier if he was just crushing on Clint for his body. But somehow, somewhere, someone has managed to create this perfect disaster of a human who is ticking exactly _all_ of Bucky’s boxes. 

~~~~~~

“Hey, Bucky.” Clint’s voice is questioning from the doorway to the lab, and Bucky looks up. Clint has his eyebrows raised and a smirk barely contained on his face. 

Bucky pushes his glasses up into his hair and hits save on the program, sliding back from the desk. Whatever mischief Clint’s about to get up to, it’ll be more interesting than entering data points from the past month. “What’s up, Clint?” 

Clint’s smirk breaks into a full-fledged grin and he walks into the room, taking the extra chair and spinning it around. He straddles it and brings his hands up, framing the air in front of Bucky. “Okay, so, important question.” 

Bucky looks up from where he’s been watching the stretch of jeans over Clint’s thighs, blinking. “Question, yes, go ahead.” 

Clint bites his lip, and Bucky appreciates the flex of freckles across the bridge of his nose. “Can penguins imprint on people? And if so, can we get one?” 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, “but what?” 

“Yeah, yeah, you know, like ducks and geese do,” Clint says animatedly. He mimes a person walking with one hand, then a second set of legs hurrying after them with his other hand. His motions are almost as ridiculous as the hypothesis he draws next. “Like if there’s a baby penguin chick that doesn’t have parents for some reason, but then a human shows up, and bam, I get to be a penguin mama.” 

_A penguin mama_. 

Bucky doesn’t know quite how to respond. 

Clint takes his silence as a suggestion for him to fill it. 

“I mean you can’t tell me life wouldn’t be about a million times more awesome if we had a little penguin running around here, am I wrong?” His eyes are wide open in their contemplation of such a life, smile bright and dimpled. “I thought you’d know the answer to this, cause you’re the penguin guy, right?” 

Bucky thinks it’s interesting how he’s somehow okay with how Clint’s just trivialized years of study and research by asking him a question this absurd. 

“Penguins aren’t pets, Clint,” he says, instead of any of the other possible responses bubbling up inside him. 

“Aw, man, I know that,” Clint says. “But what if there’s a little abandoned chick? Could we save it? Does that ever happen in the colonies?” 

Bucky doesn’t want to break Clint’s poor, baby penguin loving heart, but, “Unfortunately that happens sometimes.” He carefully does not give any statistics, and he quickly represses his urge to recommend several nature documentaries where that exact situation occurs. “And there’s not anything that we could do about it without disturbing the colony.” 

It’s like watching all of the joy retreat from the world with how fast Clint’s face falls. 

Clint looks at the ground, eyebrows meeting in the center of his forehead. He sighs, and pulls out his phone. “You mean to tell me that a penguin version of this won’t ever be possible?” 

Clint taps open his phone, scrolling up, then presses play before handing it to Bucky. On the screen, a herd of college aged boys thunder past an open doorway, hands in the air, yelling in dramatized fear. A moment later, a tiny yellow piece of fluff patters rapidly after them, quacking belligerently. The scene repeats itself as the boys run past in the opposite direction, a few looking over their shoulders in fear, one tripping and crawling before being overtaken by the duckling. And yeah, this might be the cutest thing Bucky’s ever seen. 

Clint’s eyes are on the screen, too, leaning close to Bucky with a soft smile already back on his face. He presses play one more time, and the boys’ yells fade into the background as Bucky watches Clint’s eyes crinkle and mouth twist upward. Bucky doesn’t notice his glasses slipping down until they thunk down on the bridge of his nose, and Bucky jerks backwards. 

Clint looks at him, and sighs. “You’re gonna tell me no, aren’t you?” 

Bucky thinks there’s a lot of things that he would say yes to, if Clint asked. “I’m sorry, Clint, but that’s just not gonna happen.” 

Clint looks crestfallen, sliding his phone back into his pocket, and Bucky briefly contemplates abandoning all of his morals and principles in order to steal a penguin chick to brighten Clint’s day. “Have you ever thought about getting, like, a dog?” 

Clint freezes, then his sunshine grin explodes back onto his face, tinged with incredulity. “Wait, have we not talked about Lucky yet?” 

Bucky settles in as Clint launches into describing his rescue, Lucky, who stays with Kate whenever Clint is out on research. It’s a coparenting relationship, Clint explains, without all of the gross having been romantically involved and procreating bits, but Lucky definitely likes it when he stays with Clint best, since Clint gives him pizza. 

Bucky wonders just when he became so gone over this guy that he finds feeding dogs pizza endearing. 

~~~~~~

Bucky should get off of the couch. He’s got work to do: data points to enter, data sets to analyze, emails to answer, research notes to compile into readable material. But then, nothing seems particularly pressing at the moment. It’s weird, setting your own schedule, weird to exist on the other side of the world from your supervisor, weird to be doing work that has no discernible immediate impact, no clear consequences if it’s done late. 

He stares at the ceiling. He’d made a plan this morning, a schedule to follow. He’d lasted up until noon following the agenda, broke for lunch, and somehow found himself on the couch instead of back in the lab. It’s now pushing three, and he hasn’t moved an inch. 

It’s really easy to justify his actions to himself. 

What’s not easy is the uncomfortable guilt that he feels spooling in his chest. No matter how many times he tells himself it’s okay to break schedule, and that he’ll get his work done eventually because that’s the type of person he is, he can’t help but feel guilty for being unproductive. 

“Hey, Buck.” 

Bucky startles, arms flailing as he looks around. Clint’s seated in one of the armchairs by the fire, rubbing his hands together to heat them up. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, and he’s still got his outdoor gear on, snow scrunching along the creases of his jacket and pants, tiny icy piles tracing his footprints into the lounge. 

He’s been out all morning, presumably checking the UV spectroradiometer he’s in charge of monitoring throughout the winter, ensuring nothing’s happened to the light measurement tool that’s in charge of collecting data focusing on stratospheric ozone depletion. 

“Cold out there?” Bucky asks, to his horror. Of course it’s cold outside. It’s the middle of August in _Antarctica_ , where it’s dark 24 hours of the day, the earth’s axis tilted completely away from the sun. 

Clint chuckles good-naturedly, as though he doesn’t think Bucky’s an absolute idiot. “Yeah, but it’s not that bad today. What are you doing in here?” 

Bucky glances around the room, at the book he let slip out of his hand a few minutes ago when he wasn’t able to concentrate on it any longer, at the fire that’s been crackling mockingly for the past three hours. He adjusts his glasses, scooting up so he’s not completely horizontal on the couch. “Taking a break from work.” 

“Oh, great,” Clint says, then looks down at his hands before meeting Bucky’s eyes. “Wanna move that break outside? I’ve got something to show you.” 

Bucky narrows his eyes. Clint knows by now that Bucky really, really hates going outside unless he has to for work. “But it’s cold outside,” he says hesitantly. 

Clint grins sheepishly. “Yeah, I know. It’ll be different today, though, I think you’ll like it. In fact,” he says, straightening in the chair, eyebrows raising, “I think, well, I hope, this’ll be your favorite time you go outside all winter.” 

Bucky squints one eye at him. “I don’t like the cold.” 

“C’mon Bucky, I promise it’ll be worth it,” Clint pleads, expression earnest. 

Bucky sighs. Clint begging is honestly irresistible, his big blue eyes wide as he channels Lucky asking for pizza. And Bucky knows exactly what that looks like, too; he’s seen innumerable pictures and videos of the golden retriever mix since Clint started sending every Instagram post Kate shares of Lucky to Bucky, as well as all the spastic videos she sends Clint just to remind him how much he and Lucky have in common. The most recent video showed Lucky falling into a pool, with the caption ‘remember the night at that hotel? You dumb blondes are all the same’, which had sent Clint into a long tirade about how being soaking wet is sometimes the better alternative. To what, Bucky’s not entirely sure. 

“Fine,” he grumbles, pushing himself off the couch. He points his finger at Clint. “This better be worth it.” 

Clint springs up from the armchair, positively bouncing as he follows Bucky to the mud room. 

Bucky grumbles incoherently as they make their way through the hallways. He has no clue what Clint wants to show him. When they get to the mud room, Bucky pulls on his first extra layer, pausing with one foot half in an extra thick wool sock. 

“You didn’t steal a baby penguin, did you?” 

Clint’s befuddled expression is gold, and Bucky snorts, finishing one sock, then pulling on the next. 

“Okay, there’s nothing animal related out there, right?” 

“Nothing to do with animals,” Clint promises. “That’s your domain. I wouldn’t want you to punch me for doing something dumb with wildlife, so I’m deliberately avoiding everything animal for the time being. I won’t even ask you about mermaids, though if they were going to exist anywhere, I have a solid case for why I think they’d exist here.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes and shoulders his way into his second jacket. “Don’t test me with that pseudoscience, Barton.” 

“I’m just saying,” Clint teases, “they say we know more about space than we do about our own ocean.” 

“I’m slightly more educated about that than the omniscient ‘they’ you speak of,” Bucky grouches. He yanks his beanie down over his hair, then goes to pull his hoods up over it. 

“Hold up,” Clint says, walking over. He takes an extra scarf down from the pegs, bright purple and thick. He steps forward and winds it around Bucky’s neck, tucking the excess into Bucky’s shirt. The wool scratches at Bucky’s skin, but he finds he doesn’t mind. Clint’s hands center on his chest, zipping both jackets closed, then he pulls first one, then the second hood over Bucky’s head, cinching each tight to his face. 

“There we go,” Clint says, one hand still resting gently at the high zipped neck of Bucky’s jacket. 

“There we go,” Bucky repeats in a whisper, because Clint’s body is less than a foot away, his face close and kissable. 

A slow grin spreads across Clint’s mouth, and he removes his hand slowly, placing it on Bucky’s shoulder. He pushes him towards the back door. “Let’s go, Buck. Don’t keep me waiting.” 

“Keep _you_ waiting,” Bucky says disgruntledly to disguise the pounding of his heart. That had been something, right? That had been a moment? 

He pulls open the door to the outside, eyes immediately closing at the cold that snaps across his face. 

Then, he realizes that it’s light outside behind his eyelids. “What…” he starts to ask, and opens his eyes. 

In front of him, a few yards away, is some sort of triangular shaped green thing. Bucky takes a few steps forward, boots crunching on the ground, and realizes it’s a chair, covered by two green pieces of fabric of different hues, the lower one spread out to the side, held down by cinder blocks to complete the triangular shape. The fabric on top, a sweater, Bucky realizes as he peers at it, has specks of bright yellow, red, and white paint on it. On top, a flimsy piece of aluminum foil is waving in the wind, and when the wind whips it back towards them, Bucky sees that it’s shaped like a star. 

“It’s a Christmas tree,” Clint says behind him. Bucky tilts his head to the side, and supposes that if he finds the right angle, and blurs his eyes just so, the monstrosity in front of them could probably be construed as such. 

He turns back towards the door. Clint’s standing behind him, two steaming travel mugs in his hands. 

“It’s Christmas in August,” he says. His back is to the station, so Bucky can’t see the expression on his face, but his soft tone speaks of hesitancy, concern that he hasn’t gotten this right. 

Bucky feels the corner of his mouth twist up, and makes sure to turn fully to face him so his face is lit by the lights in case Barton can’t hear him over the wind. “You know, I think it’s supposed to be Christmas in July.” 

Clint extends one of the mugs to him. “Yeah, well, it’s August now, and I just had the idea.” 

“To make a janky Christmas tree?” Bucky asks, stepping closer to take the mug. 

“To try and brighten your day,” Clint responds, ducking his head down. “I know you hate it here, so I thought, what could I do to make things a little less terrible? And, well, here we are.” 

Bucky glances around the clearing, illuminated by two giant floodlights. The lights bathe the area in an orange glow, tinging the gray snow slightly warmer than normal. The chair turned Christmas tree is listing to the side, the cinder blocks Clint had stacked around the legs slightly off center. 

“I made hot chocolate,” Clint says. “And I was gonna make cookies, but you remember how that went last time. And I thought about putting a screen up on the side of the station and projecting a Christmas movie with a space heater beside the projector so that the mechanisms didn’t freeze, but then I realized that was probably a recipe for disaster, so, um, we could watch a movie when we go back inside?” 

Bucky feels the grin on his face widen, and a warmth starts to spread through his body that he thinks is probably not from the steam rising from the mug, battered away by the wind as quickly as it is. 

“So I have these glow sticks,” Clint says, pulling out a handful of the glow sticks that they usually use to mark data readers and devices out in the darkness. “And I found some of that freezer tape that I think’ll work to attach them to the sweater. You know, like lights? Plus, the tape is silver, so that’s kind of Christmassy, right? And if you wanted, we could make a snow person. We’ve got coal and carrots and everything. I even have a scarf.” 

He rifles through one of the pockets in his pants, and his unwieldy gloves knock several lumps of coal out of his pocket before he’s able to extract the scarf and hold it high in front of him, a bright red thing that billows in the breeze, flicking him in the face as it does. 

“You did all this for me?” Bucky asks, taking one step closer, angling himself so that Clint has to turn to the side to answer. 

“Well, yeah.” Clint says, turning to look at him, his face illuminated in the glow of the floodlights. There are crystals of ice already taking up residence on his long eyelashes. “I hope that’s okay.” 

Bucky covers his mouth with his hand, the glove rubbing roughly against his face. “Clint,” he says, then snorts. “You didn’t know I was Jewish, did you?” 

If the wind wasn’t howling, this would be the perfect moment to be able to hear a pin drop. 

“Well, shit,” Clint says.

Bucky laughs. 

“Um, we could, well,” Clint says, scrambling, “I could light the sweaters on fire? Or, wait a minute, I think we have some blue paint in the storage room? That’s Hanukkah-y, right? Oh, and the glow sticks, those could totally be candles—and, and, we have a rake, I bet if we stood it up and stuck the glow sticks in between the tines, it’d be like a menorah. Then we can, like, take one down for the next nine days.” 

He pauses, out of breath, and the expression on his face sends Bucky into near hysterics. 

“That’d be perfect,” he says, the skin around his eyes burning as the tears from his laughter start to freeze in place. 

“I’m really sorry,” Clint says, looking down at the ground. “I shouldn’t have assumed.” 

“You shouldn’t have, but I forgive you,” Bucky says. “Luckily, most winter date activities are actually entirely non-denominational. And that’s what you’re trying to do here, right?” 

Clint’s smile is blinding. “Hot chocolate knows no religion.” 

Bucky lifts his mug to his mouth to take a sip, and—“Clint,” Bucky says, “this is coffee.” 

“Oh,” Clint says, staring confusedly down into his own mug. “Whoops. I must’ve grabbed the wrong packet.” 

Bucky chooses to find it charming that Clint’s attraction to coffee is so pervasive that he somehow didn’t notice that he’d grabbed the instant coffee packets instead of the hot chocolate packets. They’re not even stored in the same place.

“That’s alright,” Bucky says, reaching out a hand to Clint’s arm to forestall his concern. “I like coffee just fine.” 

“Sorry, that’s two strikes in less than a minute. I’m such an idiot sometimes,” Clint says softly, staring down at Bucky’s hand on his arm. He raises his eyes, warm and searching. “We can make hot chocolate when we go back inside? Maybe while you help me out with the cookies? Which will definitely not be red and green? Or those potato things, if cookies are totally out.” 

Bucky meets his eyes and takes one final step closer so that they’re standing nearly flush together. Their mugs bump up against each other. He hopes that Clint finds the answer he’s looking for in his expression. “I’m not sure I should let you in the kitchen at all after this.” 

“I figure if you’re there, too, I’m less likely to make so many mistakes,” Clint says. He lowers the arm Bucky has his hand on, and Bucky lets his hand drift further down his forearm, then over his wrist. Clint flips his hand as Bucky’s hand lights over his fingers, and clasps their hands together. It’s awkward, their giant gloves bulky, and he almost drops Bucky’s hand before tightening his grip. 

“I figure you’re probably right,” Bucky says, and tilts his head up, a clear request. 

Clint lowers his head, and their lips meet. 

It’s cold. 

Clint’s lips feel less like lips and more like soft pieces of ice against Bucky’s numb mouth, but the warmth that shoots through Bucky is as perfect and electric as any first kiss has ever been. 

Bucky moves his head back and looks at the joy on the face of the beautiful dork in front of him. “I think that might be better inside.” 

“Sorry,” Clint says teasingly. “I must have misheard you, it almost sounded like you _didn’t_ think that this was the best thing in the world, that totally and completely lived up to the fantasy you’ve been dreaming about for weeks. Or was that fantasy just in my head? 

“Weeks?” Bucky asks. 

“Weeks,” Clint confirms. He takes another sip from his mug and shakes his head. “Aw, coffee.” 

Bucky chuckles, then steps away, glancing back around the clearing. “Well let’s do this thing, yeah? Gimme some of those glow sticks, let’s go kick that offensive atrocity over.” 

Clint’s smile grows, and he hands over a few to Bucky, jogging quickly to the shed to get the rake. “We’ll do this, the snow person, and then get back inside for warmer things?” 

Bucky heads towards the lopsided Christmas tree. “Might have to make the world’s smallest snow person. I don’t know how long I’ll be willing to stay out here.” 

“Fair,” Clint says, coming up behind him with the rake aimed like a baseball bat. “And I guess the snow angels are out, then, too.” 

Bucky snorts, holding his hand out for the rake. “You couldn’t pay me enough to get down in the snow.” 

Clint raises his eyebrows. “Not even if I got down there with you?” 

Bucky grins. “Get me inside, Barton, then I’ll be more than happy to get down with you.” 

Clint laughs out loud, bright and booming across the snowy surface. 

A few minutes later, their snow person is only a foot tall, has only one coal button on it, and the carrot falls out before they’re halfway back to the station door. Oddly enough, neither return to fix it. 

~~~~~~

“This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done,” Steve says, crossing his arms across his chest with a glare. It’s slightly better than the bewildered expression he’d had on his face for the first thirty minutes after Bucky told them he was planning on stripping naked, spending half an hour in the sauna, then running around outside in the -100 degree cold. Natasha smirks. 

“This is what happens when you leave anyone with Barton for too long,” she says, flicking Clint’s elbow, who is unraveling blankets near the back door. “The idiocy just starts to bleed out and infect anyone it touches.” 

“Hey!” Bucky and Clint say simultaneously, then glance at each other. Bucky has got his face peering out through the sauna door, sweat dripping down his forehead, skin a screaming red. They rarely crank the heat all the way up like this; it’s actually really not safe. 

“Clint’s not an idiot,” Bucky says, a tiny furrow between his brows. His glasses are completely fogged up, and Natasha wonders why he hasn’t taken them off yet, because he’s surely blind by now. 

“Aw,” Clint says, walking over to the sauna, sliding Bucky’s glasses into his sweaty hair to press a kiss to his cheekbone. Ah. That must be why. “Are you the only one allowed to insult me now?” 

“Maybe,” Bucky says testily, before closing the door again. They can hear him through the wood, and Natasha raises her eyebrows at Clint, because she’s not about to stop heckling Clint no matter who he’s dating. He rolls his eyes in response; good, he knows his place. Bucky's voice grows plaintive, his nerves clearly beginning to dial up. “Are you guys ready? Please be ready. If you’re not ready, I’m going to go ahead and combust in here and won’t go outside and will just die in here instead.” 

Natasha looks around the mud room, evaluates the space heaters they have blasting, the hot pads, the way Clint is hovering, one blanket already in hand to scoop Bucky into when he gets back. She thinks about the hot water standing ready and boiled on the stove, tea steeping, and the set of clothes lying ready to put Bucky into as soon as he’s inside. Steve is standing by the door, suited up, ready to go outside first to jog alongside Bucky as he circles around the chair Clint had set up 150 yards from the back door. 

“As ready as we’ll ever be,” she says, but Clint holds the door closed when Bucky starts to push out. 

“You have your bunny boots on?” he asks, expression excessively concerned for someone who’d done the same thing with significantly less preparation and safety measures in place. “And the neck gaiter?” 

“Yes, Clint,” comes Bucky’s exasperated voice through the thick wood of the sauna door. 

“You’re not going to run, no matter how cold it is, or you’ll hurt your throat, and remember that Steve will be right there if you need him.” 

“I know, Clint.” 

“It’s only 150 yards, no big deal,” Clint continues, still holding the door closed, as if Bucky’s made any movement since Clint started questioning him. “You’ll be back here and warm before you know it.” 

“I know, Clint,” Bucky repeats, then his voice changes, turning teasing. “It’ll be a lot more fun for you to warm me up this time.” 

Natasha sees the back of Clint’s neck flush pink. 

Steve heaves a sigh and opens the door to the outside with all the attitude of an annoyed teenager. The snow is illuminated by a floodlight all the way to the blinking light on top of the chair that will be Bucky’s turn around point. “I’ll be 10 yards out.” 

“Let’s go, boys,” Natasha says, pulling at Clint’s arm. “I have zero desire to see Barnes’ ass tonight, but if we’re doing this, let’s get it done.” She walks over to the back door, ready to pull it open so that Bucky can get through unimpeded. 

Clint steps back from the sauna, and Bucky emerges, dressed only in his chunky boots and a bright purple neck gaiter that looks suspiciously like Clint’s. Natasha averts her eyes and swings open the door. “Get your ass through here, we don’t have all day.” 

Bucky laughs, high and nervous, and Natasha hears Clint give him a quick peck. 

“I can’t believe you convinced me to do this,” Bucky says. 

“This is more exclusive than the mile-high club, but maybe we can join that one together when we head back stateside,” Clint says lowly, then there’s a smack, a yelp, and suddenly a naked Bucky Barnes is pushing past Natasha. 

“He’s almost as white as the snow,” she remarks to Clint as Steve falls in with Bucky, sheltering him from the worst of the crosswind. 

“Yeah,” Clint says in a dopey voice that tells Natasha he really didn’t process what she said. Natasha looks up at him. The full moon is bright on the snow, reflecting up onto Clint’s face. He’s got a crooked grin, and a warmth in his eyes that Natasha hasn’t seen in a long time. “Look at that ass go, though. It’s smoking.” 

“Hmm,” Natasha hums, very intentionally not looking. “Probably closer to freezing, actually.” 

Clint laughs, rich and smitten. He quirks his head to the side, and winks at Natasha. “Not for long.” 

**Author's Note:**

> If any of you reading are curious, [here](https://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2014/01/on-getting-naked-in-antarctica/282883/) is one of the articles I found when researching about the 300 Club, where people LITERALLY DO EXACTLY WHAT CLINT AND BUCKY DID, THE MANIACS. 
> 
> And, if any of the fluffy scenes look familiar, that might be because they’re inspired in part by [this Buzzfeed post](https://www.buzzfeed.com/andyneuenschwander/boys-will-be-boys) from a few years ago. But also, here's a friendly reminder that shenanigans are gender neutral, hooray!
> 
> Finally, I got excessively invested in the science behind this, as well as what life is like in Antarctica, so [here's](https://www.usap.gov/scienceSupport/documents/2020-2021%20Science%20Planning%20Summaries.pdf) where you can actually see what kind of research the US Govt, NOAA, etc are funding down in Antarctica this season!!! Wild.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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